Page 17

It was seven-thirty-five when I walked through the door of the Monterey Plaza Hotel, and the first person I saw was Finn. He was balancing several drinks on his way from the hotel lobby toward the banquet room.

He spotted me, frowned—nothing new there—and started to say something, but I nodded curtly and kept moving. It was all I could do not to break into a run.

I didn’t bother with the elevators. I went straight for the stairs and arrived on the fifth floor out of breath and drenched in sweat.

I unlocked my suite, kicking off my shoes, hopping as I pulled off my socks, shedding my jeans, boxers, tearing off my shirt…

I flung myself into the giant shower, breathing in the eucalyptus-scented steam as water streamed down my head and shoulders.

I lathered up, shaved, rinsed off, stepped out of the shower, grabbing for a towel. I brushed my teeth, slapped on moisturizer, aftershave, hair gel...

Finn used to tease me about being overly organized, and yes, I did like everything to be just right. But it was a handy trait to have when you were moving so fast you didn’t have time to think.

When I walked out of my suite eleven minutes later, my shoes were polished, my bow tie was straight, and my cufflinks fastened.

Sure, my heart was going sixty miles an hour and there were ominous wavy lines at the edges of my vision, but no one was going to be able to accuse me of blowing off this damned banquet.

I did not—could not allow—myself to think about anything but getting through the next four hours.

I strolled into the banquet room just as everyone was finding their table.

I got a few curious looks, a few smiles and nods hello, but mostly no one seemed to notice me at all.

At conferences, authors, rightly, are the stars of the show.

No one cares if an editor does or doesn’t show up for an event.

Unless the event is delivering feedback to an author in a one-on-one session.

Moving around the large round tables, I greeted authors, asking if they were having a good time, asking if anyone needed a drink, the usual stuff.

“Actually, you look like you could use a drink.” Adrien English came up beside me and pushed a drink into my hand. He was smiling faintly.

That was thoughtful—and unusual. I think the first author who ever bought me a drink was Finn.

My, “How did you know?” was only half-kidding. I downed three-quarters of the liquid in a large swallow. An old-fashioned. He was an observant guy.

“The number of times Lila Pendergast asked if we’d seen you.”

I nearly choked, but managed not to spray the nearest table with whisky and bitters.

Adrien nodded to another table where Christopher Holmes, J.X. Moriarity, Kyle Bari, and a tall, lean man with dark, curly hair were all watching me with unnerving interest.

I wanted to ask—well, I’m not sure what, but was forestalled when Cherry bounced up, her expression apologetic. She looked adorable in a short red silk dress. Her eyes were shining and there were sparkly red butterflies in her hair.

“Sorry for all the phone calls! You were right to ignore me. I figured it out.”

I said, just as if I knew what she was talking about, “I knew you would.”

“I suddenly remembered what you told me, and I offered her a shot of bourbon.”

My lips parted, but sometimes it’s better not to know.

“Uh oh,” Adrien murmured. He was looking past me.

I followed his gaze and spotted Mindy Newburgh, incoming. Wise child that she was, Cherry departed post haste for her table in the nether regions where supporting staff were relegated.

As Mindy reached me, she demanded, “Keiran, are we still on for coffee tomorrow?”

I didn’t quite understand the reason for the narrow eyes or tight expression. I’d accepted her invitation mostly out of curiosity. She wasn’t one of my authors, although I’d worked with her back when I’d first been with Wheaton the volume of voices all talking at once, deafening. An ominous tightness crawled over the base of my skull. The shimmering at the edge of my vision was turning into wavy lines.

Fan-fucking-tantastic. A migraine. Really ?

I decided to focus on finding my seat. Water would help. I was probably dehydrated. Food. A couple of OTC pain relievers. I could do this.

I located my name placard and took my seat next to Millie—Millicent Millbrook-Abernathy—the granddaughter of our founder, Ethel Millbrook.

W&W’s VP of sales and their art director were also seated with us, so the good news was I still rated a place at one of the leadership tables. That was reassuring.

Millie was in her thirties. A charming, stately-looking blonde who, sadly, had the business acumen of a Palamino.

She smiled and greeted me with the news that W&W were in negotiation to sign Thomas McGregor.

“That’s… Unexpected.” Unexpectedly great news. I was pretty amazed because I hadn’t got even an inkling from Lila.

“I know. I was surprised, too,” Millie said. “Apparently, he was just about to sign with Theodore Mansfield when W&W swooped in at the last minute and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Great for us. Pretty lousy for TM. Who represents him?”

“He does. He doesn’t have an agent.”

“That’s bold.”

Here was someone who’d give Finn a run for his money.

I sipped from my water glass, fished the packet of Nuvicare out of my jacket pocket, tore it open, and swallowed two tablets. Hopefully, that would be enough.

W&W’s art director, Ariel Newsome, grimaced in sympathy. “These things always give me a headache, too.”

I smiled, sipped more water.

Honestly, I don’t remember much about the dinner. Vaughn gave a welcome speech, talked about exciting new beginnings, and the dishes began to arrive. I think the main entrée was prime rib and whatever went with that. I didn’t eat much and I avoided having a second drink.

Millie also wasn’t eating much, though she was drinking enough for both of us. Eventually, she leaned over and said a little shakily, “I feel like I shouldn’t even be here. I feel like everyone hates me.”

I regarded her, made a noncommittal, “Mm.” I didn’t see the point in lying. She wasn’t very popular at the moment.

I could feel her staring at my profile. “Keiran, couldn’t you… Talk to people? Couldn’t you help them see things from my point of view? Everyone likes you. They respect your opinion.”

My surprise had to have shown. But why was this the hard part for her?

She’d gotten everything she wanted out of the deal with W&W.

Tonight would probably be our last public appearance as the publishing company formerly known as Millbrook House.

Yes, every Millbrook employee in the room, myself included, had mixed emotions regarding her, but it was very likely the last time she’d see most of us.

Usually, I’d have felt obliged to come up with something polite and neutral. Maybe I was too tired, too shaken by the events of the last twenty-four hours, maybe it was the ominous pulse behind my right eye. The best I could do was offer another of those neutral nods.